


Vale Stability

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Explicit Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25563049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A natural collapse; A question brought up in youth that found answers with years. Intelligence marks the reign of great Kings and forms the spine and solid foundation of nations. But what does a monarch do when wisdom isn't enough to protect them? How long can a King occupy a throne before things begin to fail?How long should Temeria keep an unstable chess piece?
Relationships: Foltest/Vernon Roche
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	Vale Stability

**Author's Note:**

> idk.

There had been a phenomenon that had occurred when he was little. Too small to be allowed a blade, but big enough he didn’t need to hold his mother’s hand when he was allowed to witness the site. In the forest, not far from their glittering castle that was nestled perfectly between the hills and city, a hole had opened up. Like the maw of a dragon.

A sinkhole had formed in Temeria.

Of course, this has sparked fear in his mother. She always had been superstitious, especially when nursing Adda, but the effects thankfully never rubbed off on him. His dear sister - His only love - had been nearing the age where she could talk, he recalled. Babbling in their mother’s arms, too small to understand what had transpired. But neither of them had made such an impact that day as seeing the sinkhole had in person. For him, who was too young to know any better, he really did think it was a long dead dragon opening its mouth, wishing to swallow Vizima and his entire life in a single gulp. It breathed and groaned, threatening to take him to a muddy grave, and he had cried out in fright at the sight. 

Looking back, the memory was charming. A lesson for him to tell his own son, when he got to an age to be placed at properly by his side. A good reminder that without wisdom, fear takes over, and simple shifts in nature could be attributed to illusions and monsters when none truly existed. No dragon dwelled underground to swallow cities, only the mud and guts of the fertile earth when it collapsed due to churning, underground rains. There was no such thing as breathing soil, and weight would drag a man down, not hunger. A king was to see past this and take in everything with the hole - terrain, forest, sky, winds - and make a judgment that was ruled by perception and knowledge. Kings did not mistake sinkholes for dragons.

And yet he constantly let himself be fooled. Because somewhere, in his youth, something had rattled free. His wisdom had failed when he needed it most.

The sinkhole had turned into a dragon over the years.

His undoing this time wasn’t his sister, but a simple bastard named Roche; it always was him as of late. Stinking of tree pollen, smoke, tobacco, and sweat. With his damned scowl that creased his harden face more than crumpled paper and a mouth that would twitch when names were mentioned. A stupid whoreson - A fucking barking cunt. Yet one of the best damn lays he ever had since his beloved had died.

It was with him that he brushed away the thought of wisdom and sense. His cock that took over, willingly thrusting into the bastard’s own damned pit, unable to stop even after he had exhausted himself to the point of collapse. He was powerless when Vernon panted and begged for him. When he would kneel and worship the natural jewels of Temeria and pour out honeyed words dripping with lustful praise. Fucking him was worse, as the whoreson would arch and bend willingly, letting him push him into positions, his eyes bursting with adoration at every new angle, even when he grew rough and tired.

He should have realized he was seducing him. But even if he had, it probably wouldn’t have changed anything. He wasn’t impotent, nor was he celibate, and his Commander was ever-willing to please him in any capacity. Yet he knew a wise King would berate and chain the dog. A king guided by intellect would have dragged him to the square, made a public example of him, stripped his back of flesh. Dragons didn’t dwell beneath soil and Kings were not tempted by peasants.

This bastard; This whore. There was nothing to fear from him. Exposure? Tongues could be cut out. Witnesses? Paid. He had powers that others didn’t, abilities with a quill that bleed deeper than wounds from a sword. Yet he abstained. 

_Why?_

What phenomenon had his life become?

It would take no time at all to execute his will. Sinkholes could be buried and faith restored with punishment and gifts to the Temple. Vernon Roche, despite his succubus-like lust and temptations, was nothing more than a failed ink drop in the annuls of Temeria. No books would cherish him, no women would bear his seed, no monuments would be lifted for honor. A signature would mean silence - A smart end to a loose thread. Every Monarch knew the price of trusting others. Enemies were better friends than some lovers and chess pieces being moved by precision rather than irrationality won wars and birthed land. Temeria was rich because of knowledge, not instinct. _He_ was rich, in more ways than one.

But perhaps that was why he hesitated. Because intelligence never considered something else when facts were displayed. 

He had been a child when he had remarked about dragons, a conclusion that brought chuckles. But that had been in naive earnest - he didn’t know better. His wisdom allowed him to see past that as he sat on an elm throne with a golden crown, but there was no punishment for his foolishness because all had empathy for his innocence. He had been young. He didn’t know better.

No one could ever claim Vernon Roche was innocent, but he knew deep down, if he stopped displaying compassion, the sinkhole would come back. Only as a manifestation in physical form, full of the same emptiness as what he saw as a youth. He wouldn’t have to lift a finger to command his soldier to flagellate himself; He was willing without prompt. It wasn’t a fact, but a truth they both secretly knew, and that was where he wavered.

A weakness inside him - one of many. But when did holes in the earth and mythical beasts ask him to turn cold? If he truly froze his heart, what would his future become?

Did _he_ not know better? 

It led him to ask a question; One that hung between them ever since he laid a sword on his shoulder and let him occupy his bed.

The day had been grey, a dampness hanging in the air, but when reflections were foggy, it was the ideal time to begin inquiries. When the barest of light touched the dungeon floor.

“Roche?” He paused after the name. Just to watch the brass eyes turn to him. Eager, loyal, and forgiving. Too trusting, and yet slightly wary. The way a child would act when being scolded. He wasted no time in asking. “What would you do if I executed you?”

The movement was so slight but unmistakable, and in a second, he witnessed what the folly of wisdom brought. Had he been mocked that day, would he have embraced anything other than coldness? Could he had found love in the embrace of his Sister? Lust in the heat of a moonless night? Understanding in nature and the ways it could not be controlled? Could he admire tales and sculptures of dragons and the way the earth healed itself with rain and fallen trees? 

A few simple words had tarnished the light in his soldier’s eye, yet he remained upright. His shoulders had drifted down in defeat, his skin growing slightly pallid, and if he hadn’t embraced his affection, he wouldn’t have seen how his grip slightly slackened on the quill in his hand. A sign of distress; Not everyone displayed it.

His words were simple, but all the books in the realm wouldn’t have been able to tell him what his expression had become; It was something only a human could understand. One that wanted to know their fellow men and yet had forced them to see horrors. He had wounded him with less than ten words. “Your word is law,” Roche replied softly, as if expecting it. Like he too had witnessed the ground quake and collapse as a child, only he had been mercilessly mocked. How could anyone be so _stupid_ as to believe in dragons? “I swore to uphold all laws issued in Temeria.”

“You would let me kill you? With no complaint?”

His eyes slipped away, off-center and with guily, causing himself to frown. Could both witness the same yawning beast and come to an equal conclusion? Should his word override emotion? Could he _kill_ what had successfully charmed him? Would the master at chess ever hesitate when sacrificing their units?

“Yes,” Roche finally said, as soft as he could yet with the weight of the earth. An irrational answer; Stupid and naive. But once again, he couldn’t help the empathy that had weakened his heart. Dragons didn’t exist; Nature was cruel. Nations and countries only thrived with wisdom, and collapsed when Kings let themselves be blinded.

Vernon Roche was too sincere.

And he wasn’t cruel or smart enough to punish him for it.


End file.
